Remember Me
by Mestizaa
Summary: "I thought I would die here and haunt it ever after." In a way, he did.


_For Kissman. Thank you for everything._

**Summary:** "I thought I would die here and haunt it ever after." In a way, he did.

**Warnings:** Dark themes, character death, mental health issues, possible supernatural elements (maybe).

* * *

**Remember Me**

_vii. Fin_

Every time Elsie Hughes walks by the butler's pantry, she expects to see Charles Carson. When she wanders by in the middle of the night, she expects to find him sitting by his dim desk lamp pouring over a ledger. She expects to see him struggling with the page, wrinkling his brow and squinting as he tries to find that sweet spot because his y's and g's are starting to look the same.

She expects to see him smile when he notices her there. And she expects to see two glasses, two tea cups, two anythings, ready on the table, waiting for her.

So when she wanders by his door, she is never prepared when there is anybody else but him.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Mrs Hughes?" The voice cuts through her soul.

"Oh, no thank you, Mr Barrow." She raises her chin and looks him dead in the eye. "I'm perfectly fine."

His forehead crinkles and he searches her face. But she keeps her head high and her feelings hidden. Finally, he speaks, his shoulders dropping slightly in defeat. "If you say so."

And so she nods and continues on her way with his eyes burning holes into her soul.

This exchange, and all variations of it, happened more times than it should have.

Every single time her feeling deflated. She had a pain in her chest, like a snake had coiled itself around her and squeezed out all the air from her lungs until all that was left was...

Nothing.

Later that night, she finds herself hovering around the butler's pantry again. She gently pushes the door open, and is unsurprised when she sees Mr Carson waiting for her at his desk.

"You shouldn't be here," he states gravely.

Normally it was Mrs Hughes who told him that.

"Yes, well, neither should you," she counters.

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. "Are you tired?"

He always asks and this time she answers truthfully.

"Yes."

"Then why don't you sleep?"

"Because I am tired of dreaming."

He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he opens his arms to her. "Come in then. One more cup of tea, and then we can rest."

She crosses over the threshold and takes her seat across from him.

She is so tired. Her eyes are barely open... and she relaxes, sinks into her chair, letting her weariness wash over her. She hears the distant sloshing of the tea being poured into the one cup.

She closes her eyes for a moment, before jerking herself awake. She can't allow herself. Not now. Not yet.

But she is so tired and she is oh so comfortable, and he's there watching over her and she knows that everything will be okay.

So when the darkness overcomes her, she welcomes it.

And Elsie Hughes is finally able to rest in peace.

* * *

_vi. Hope_

Mrs Patmore realizes that sooner is always better than later. However, soon had already come and it had already gone until all she was left with was a small wooden box gathering dust on her nightstand.

She had her moment a long time ago, but the bags highlighting the haunted look on her friend's face prevented her from formulating the right words. Mrs Hughes was already a fragile shell of who she once was. She still did her job – she did her job well, perhaps too well, and sometimes Mrs Patmore would catch her doing somebody else's duties.

Yet Mrs Hughes was still the last one to breakfast and the first person in bed. No longer was she armed with a snarky comment or an encouraging remark. Perhaps most alarming to the cook, the housekeeper no longer held the store cupboard key. Instead her eyes were blank, her words empty, her ring of keys lighter. Mrs Patmore worried that she would collapse into herself.

But now time has passed, but the grief has not. Mrs Patmore worries that any closure that was to be found in the small box would not be much help now.

Still, she hoped.

She finally gathers the strength, the courage, to knock on the housekeeper's door and slip inside before being granted an invitation.

"Mrs Hughes, there is something I've been meaning to tell you." Her words are out in a blur. She holds her breath.

The lines between her eyes crinkle slightly. Otherwise, there was no discernible reaction.

"At first I wasn't sure how to bring it up, but then I thought, 'to hell with it.'"

"What is it?" Mrs Hughes asks calmly, interrupting the cook's nervous rambling.

Mrs Patmore reveals the simple jewelry box and places it gently on the desk separating the two women. The golden latch glistens in the light while shadows dance across the delicate carvings of roses.

Mrs Hughes recoils slightly when it makes contact with her desk. "Where did you find that?" she asks, her voice dangerously low.

Mrs Patmore stands her ground. Her fists are clenched at her sides and she is trying ever so hard to keep her voice even. Neutral. "It was in Mr Carson's things."

At these words, Mrs Hughes' eyes flash darkly. "Take it away."

"You should keep it," Mrs Patmore nudges is forward. "He meant to give it to you. It's engraved with-"

"No!" objects Mrs Hughes. Her hands are clenched, trembling at her sides, the air sizzling around her. "I do not wish to know what is in that box. I do not care if he meant to give it to me because the fact remains that he didn't. I do not want to touch that box; I do not want to look at it. I want to have absolutely nothing to do with it. So please, Mrs Patmore, _take it away_!"

Defeated, Mrs Patmore takes a step back. "If that is what you wish."

And so, Mrs Patmore exited the housekeeper's sitting room holding a box full of Mr Carson's hopes and dreams.

A box full of everything that never was.

* * *

_v. Save me from drowning in the sea_

She closes her eyes, wiggles her toes, and lets the sand bury her bare feet. She takes a deep breath and lets the salt air enter her lungs. If she concentrates hard enough, she can hear the distinct sound of fun being drowned out by crashing waves and laughing seagulls.

She pushes a stray lock of greying hair from her face and takes a step forward. The water is warm. Inviting.

She takes another step. And another and another until the water is lapping at her ankles.

This is just like what she remembers.

The last time she walked into the sea, he had clutched one hand tightly while she held the hem of her skirt with the other. He kept her at bay when she started to venture too far.

"What are you imagining?" he whispers in her ear.

"Us. At the beach," she says with her eyes still firmly shut. She wiggles her fingers. "I can feel you holding my hand."

"How far would you have gone if I wasn't there?" his voice rumbles and she shivers.

"I don't know."

"How far will you go now?"

That is the question that plagues her everyday. "I don't know."

"Please don't go too far," he says. "I need you to stay grounded."

"You shouldn't be here," she laughs bitterly. "Who are you to tell me how to behave?"

"I worry about you," he admits softly. "You need to move on. You need to stop dreaming."

"I don't want to," she says. "Besides, you won't let me."

"Are you tired?" he presses gently. He always asked and she always answered the same. "Are you tired of dreaming of things that could never be?"

"Of course not, Mr Carson."

She could never tire of dreaming of him.

He sighs in defeat. "Open your eyes."

She scrunches her eyes tightly. "It'll vanish if I do."

"No, it won't."

"Do you promise?"

"Just open them."

A heavy rapping on the door pulls her completely out of her dream. She opens her eyes wearily to find a sterile bathroom, porcelain tub, a hard tile floor. She's standing naked in the tub with cold water lapping at her ankles and reality crashing down around her.

"Mrs Hughes?"Mrs Patmore calls gently. "Are you alright in there?"

"I'm fine!" her voice breaks. Closing her eyes and catching her breath, Mrs Hughes calls: "Just a moment!"

She quickly steps out of the tub and grabs her towel. She pat dries her legs, dries her eyes, straightens her shoulders and lets Mrs Patmore have her turn in the tub.

* * *

_iv. Stay with me_

It's the middle of the afternoon and Mrs Hughes' nose is buried in a ledger filled with numbers that don't add up. She's scratching her head, trying for figure out where her math went wrong. She knows it's probably something silly, but for the life of her, she can't quite see it.

"You forgot to carry the one," Mr Carson peers over her shoulder.

She sighs. That would do it.

"Thank you, Mr Carson," she says absently as she quickly fixes her calculations. "What would I do without you?"

Time stops.

"No no no no."

She remembers.

"You shouldn't be here," Elsie says weakly and drops her head in her hands. He doesn't respond.

Everywhere she goes, there he is, hidden somewhere just over the horizon, in the corner of her eye. Buried somewhere in the far reaches of her memory. She feels his presence wherever she goes, but when she reaches out to touch him, she can't. Charles Carson remains just out of her reach.

"If you really want me to grieve properly, you need to stop haunting me." She tries to being assertive but her words are hollow because she is in fact thankful for his presence. In all this madness, he is the only thing keeping her sane.

"I don't know how to leave you. I don't know if I can," he finally admits softly. "I need to make sure that you are alright."

"Of course I'm not alright, Mr Carson! You _died_!" she cries. "You died _and you left me_!"

"I didn't leave you," he places a tender hand on her left shoulder and squeezes. "I'll always be with you."

She brings right hand up to his and laces her fingers with his. "I know," she concedes with a reluctant sigh. "But it's not the same."

"Are you tired?" He always asked and she always answered the same.

"Of course not, Mr Carson," she shakes her head vehemently and them immediately yawns, ruining the legitimacy of her previous statement.

He raises an eyebrow. "To a casual observer, that seems an awful lot like fatigue."

She smiles sadly. She sleeps so she can dream, not because she is tired.

"I'd rather dream than live in a reality without you."

* * *

_iii. Legacy_

It's strange, Thomas thinks, to be rifling through Mr Carson's things, through a legacy that had been reduced to yellowing pages and smudges of ink.

It's even stranger that this desk, the chair, the pantry was no longer Mr Carson's. For as long as Mr Barrow is Acting Butler, everything is all his.

Mr Murray and Lord Grantham had already sorted through Mr Carson's incomplete will. The property and assets that he possessed had been sent off to some distant cousin Thomas had never heard of. Very little remains in the pantry: ledgers dating back to 1891, a novel with a leather bookmark embedded in the penultimate chapter, brand new pens and blank pages.

Thomas pulls open the drawer expecting to find more notebooks, more pens. He is rather surprised when this is not the case. Instead, he is confronted with a framed photograph of a mysterious woman. He takes it out and carefully brushes the dust off the glass with his gloved index finger.

Who was this woman? Family? Friend? _Lover_?

Perhaps Mr Carson wasn't the uptight, heartless old man that ruffled Thomas' feathers.

He moves to put it back in its place, and frowns when it knocks up against something. He reaches back in the drawer. Sure enough, in the far back corner is a small jewelry box.

It feels an awful lot like snooping, like he's seeing something that he shouldn't be seeing.

He carefully unlatches the box and pops it open to find a simple gold ring inside. Frowning, he picks it up with two fingers and turns it around in his hand – the gold shine contrasting with the black leather covering his hand.

Upon further inspection, he notices an inscription. A set of initials and a phrase.

_C.C &amp; E.H_

_Til death do us part._

No... it couldn't be.

Could it?

Considering everything that had happened, Mrs Hughes had been so calm, so methodic, so... put together. She wiped away Anna's lose tears without shedding any of her own. She gave Jimmy's hand a gentle squeeze when he all he could see was empty gaze behind his closed eyes. It was undeniable that Mrs Hughes still had a comforting presence downstairs and Downton continued to be a well-oiled machine, and it was because of her efforts to keep it that way.

"Just because Mr Carson is no longer with us, doesn't mean that standards are allowed to slip," she told him once.

Now Thomas realizes that it is a farce. She was just as lost as the rest of them, if not moreso.

She still gives advice to those who need it; she still provides a smile when prompted. But her words are empty, her gestures soulless. She is going through the motions.

His thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Startled, he clenches his fist around the ring.

"Oh Mrs Hughes!" His grip tightens as she enters. "Is there something I can help you with?"

For a moment, she looks disappointed to see him, as if she had been expecting somebody else. But Mrs Hughes recovers quickly, almost quick enough for Thomas not to notice.

"Oh, no thank you, Mr Barrow. I'm perfectly fine." She raises her chin and firmly meets his gaze.

She wears her mask well, but it is now obvious to him that she is broken underneath.

But she keeps her head high and her feelings hidden. Finally, he speaks, his shoulders dropping slightly in defeat. "If you say so."

She leaves and the ring is still in his hand. Not forgotten, never forgotten.

He doesn't know what to do with it.

So he calls in reinforcements.

"Mrs Patmore? There is something that you need to know..."

* * *

_ii. Picking up the pieces_

Mrs Hughes closes her door firmly and sits on the edge of her perfectly-made bed, sighing when she is finally able to take pressure off her feet. She unbuckles her shoes and kicks them off, not even bothering to put them in their proper place.

Her day had begun like it always did: with the scullery maid's knuckles rapping on her door. She took her seat to the right of Mr Carson, ate her breakfast, and waited for the normal chaos to start as soon as the bell rung.

But then Jimmy burst into her sitting room with wild eyes and an ashen complexion, and everything changed.

"Mrs Hughes!" Jimmy's cry was heavy with panic. "It's Mr Carson! _He's not moving_!"

Everything after that is a blur. She doesn't remember flying down the hall to his pantry. She doesn't remember his blank stare and unmoving form. She doesn't remember that it was her who frantically called Dr Clarkson. She doesn't remember the collective gasp and choked sobs when she had to tell her maids that it was time to draw the blinds.

She only remembers the doctor's crushing words and the sympathetic shake of his head. _"I'm sorry." _

Nothing about her day seems real.

With a heavy hand, she wipes a single tear from her cheek. Her brow crinkles as she inspects the wet glimmer on her fingertip.

Is she crying?

When had she started crying?

The bed dips next to her, and he takes her hand in his. "It's okay to cry, you know," he reassures her.

Her head jerks up sharply. This is impossible. She's dreaming. She _must_ be dreaming.

_How can he possibly be here? _

"You're here," she states blankly. Has she finally awakened from her nightmare? "What are you doing here?"

He keeps his gaze focused on the back of her hand where he is busy drawing intricate figure 8's. "I'm here for you."

Her eyes dart around her room and then back to him. "You shouldn't be here," she reminds him.

"I know," he nods in agreement, his eyes still downcast. "I want to see you. I want to take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me," she says softly, letting her head fall lazily on his shoulder. Her eyes are drooping and she is fighting to keep them open.

He raises an eyebrow. "Have you eaten?" Her silence speaks volumes. "Are you tired?"

"Of course not, Mr Carson," she shakes her head, burying it further in the crook of his neck. He smells exactly as he should. "I'm perfectly fine."

He gently extracts himself from her embrace, and she lets out a mumbled protest as she lies down. "You should try and rest," he says as he pulls the bed sheet over her.

"I don't want to. But for you, I'll try," she yawns and the lights turn off.

She rolls over to grab his hand, but when her hand touches nothing, her eyes fly open. "Mr Carson?"

It's dark and she can't see him and _oh god he's gone. _Panicking, she reaches blindly across her bed, gasping his name, searching for him in her bed sheets. But there is nothing but empty space.

She needs to find him. She needs him to hold her and she needs to wake up from this nightmare _because oh god this can't be real._

"Mr Carson?" she gasps. Her hands are trembling; her heart is fluttering like a butterfly. Each word is more hysterical than the last. "Where are you? Don't go...don't leave me..." She feels like somebody reached into her chest and plucked out her heart. "_Please don't leave me_."

Just when she thinks it might be too much, this might be _it_, all her senses are being overwhelmed by him. The scent of his aftershave, the feeling of his arms around her, his hands rubbing her back, he deep voice murmuring sweet nothings in her ears.

"Shhh...I'm here."

He's here; he's holding her. And she is not alone.

Eventually, her heavy breathing evens out and she is suddenly aware of how exhausted she truly is. She is on the verge of sleep with him wrapped around her. But she needs to know.

"Will you stay?" she asks.

"Always."

The next morning she wakes up alone.

* * *

_i. Let the dust settle_

The house had been turned upside down that morning and everything had tumbled from its proper place. Everybody had been running about trying to figure out what had happened, what to do, how to react.

The dust was finally settling around her.

Eventually it would be time to start sweeping it up.

Mr Barrow, the freshly appointed underbutler, stands rigidly to her right, with his black livery contrasting sharply against his ashen complexion. On her other side, is Mrs Patmore with a handkerchief dabbing at eyes that match the colour of her hair.

Mrs Hughes' own hands rest limp at her sides as she watches the Earl by the window. His wife is seated on the settee, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her fingers absently picking at a loose thread on her gloves.

The Earl stands by the window, keeping the heavy curtains slightly parted allowing a sliver of bright light enter from the outside world. It's sunny outside, not a cloud in the sky, and the bright light easily cuts across the long shadows cast by the dim lamps. The only movement outside is of a car moving down the dirt road and the dust cloud that is being left behind.

Lord Grantham finally moves from the window, letting the dark curtain fall back into place. "How is the feeling downstairs?"

His question breaks the silence and brings them all back to reality they are not prepared to face. Mr Barrow's eyes remain fixed on an invisible spot on the wall. Mrs Patmore sniffles again.

Mrs Hughes looks through him. "As well as can be expected," she finally responds, her voice frighteningly even.

Robert moves behind his wife and gently places his hand on her shoulder as if trying to draw strength from her.

"I hate to be the one to bring this up," Cora looks up through a veil of unshed tears, "but what are we going to do about dinner?"

At first glance, the businesslike question was so deceivingly simple. Her heart skips a beat. She hadn't thought that far ahead, and judging from the heavy silence in the room, neither did anybody else.

"With all due respect, Milady," Mrs Patmore begins tentatively, "I don't think the kitchen staff, not to mention the footmen, are in any position to produce a meal."

Cora sighs. "I understand that things are difficult," she says softly, "but we still have to eat."

"She's right," Mrs Hughes ignores the sidelong glance from her colleagues. "We can't let things fall to the wayside. There are standards that need to be maintained."

Barrow mulls this over. "I suppose we could have a maid – "

"No!" Everybody's eyes are on her after her sudden exclamation. She closes her eyes for a moment to gather her racing thoughts. She opens her eyes, now steely with resolve and looks straight ahead. "No maids in the dining room," she clarifies adamantly. "He wouldn't want that."

Robert's grip tightened on Cora's shoulder. "No, he wouldn't."

Mr Barrow hesitates, carefully considering his next words. "What if we set up dinner so the family can serve themselves?"

"You mean like what we do for luncheon on Christmas?" Cora inquires.

Barrow nods. "Mr Molesley and I can set it up beforehand and collect it when dinner is over."

Mrs Patmore dabs her eyes again. "I suppose I could make something simple," she adds. "I''ll have to forego the original menu, but at least it will be edible."

"Well then. That's settled," says Lord Grantham. "I trust this is a suitable compromise for everybody."

"Thank you all so much for your help during this crisis," Lady Grantham adds.

Her attempt to smile reassuringly falls horribly flat.

Afterwards, Mrs Patmore finds herself fighting with some dough, before giving up and roughly tossing it back down on the counter. Frustrated, the cook wipes her brow with the back of her hand and releases a frustrated sigh.

"Is everything alright, Mrs Patmore?" Beryl looks up to see the dry-eyed housekeeper hovering in the doorway.

"How can you even ask me that?" her voice breaks. "Mr Carson's gone." Mrs Hughes is at her side in an instant. A moment later, the cook's arms are wrapped around her friend and she's crying silently into the housekeeper's shoulder. "I can't believe he's gone."

Mrs Hughes pats her friend's back mechanically. "There, there."

Beryl stiffens at the gesture and pulls away slightly. "And you?" she examines her friend's face through her tears, trying and failing to find a hint of any emotion. "How are you?"

A flicker of_ something _crosses her face, but it vanishes as quickly as it had appeared.

Mrs Hughes hesitates. "I'll be fine."

Mrs Patmore believes her.

* * *

_nulla._

"_Don't tell me you'll miss me."_

"_I will, Mr Carson. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."_


End file.
